


The Miraculous Manifestation of the Holy Ghost

by asterismal (asterisms)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Harry Potter is a Horcrux, M/M, Parseltongue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-17 10:05:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16972533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterisms/pseuds/asterismal
Summary: aka Speaking in Tongues1. Harry and Voldemort in the graveyard2. Harry has a favor to ask of the Dark LordHarrymort or tomarry fics centered around the use of Parseltonge. Marked as complete, but more chapters will probably be added as more prompts come in or as inspiration strikes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Cedric escapes the graveyard with his life, Harry is left to survive his encounter with the newly resurrected Voldemort. Everything changes when Voldemort discovers that Harry, too, can speak the language of snakes.

Cedric disappears with the cup in a twist of magic. **  
**

Harry watches it happen with a strange mix of relief and dismay. Relief because Cedric made it out alive, just barely ducking out of the Killing Curse’s reach. Dismay because now that the portkey is gone, he’s trapped here with Wormtail and the deformed creature he knows to be Voldemort.

He doesn’t know what to do. Hopefully, Cedric will tell everyone at Hogwarts what’s happened, but if the last few years have taught him anything, it’s that no one is coming to help.

Spellfire splashes against the headstone he’s ducked behind, and he flinches as he clutches at his wand with shaking hands.

As much as he’d love to snatch the life from Wormtail’s body here and now, he isn’t sure he’d be able to do it in his state. His leg still aches, and he can only just hear the sound of footsteps approaching over the sound of his own racing heart. He tries to breathe silently, to not give away his position, but it’s difficult to halt the trembling of his breaths.  

He needs to move.

There’s nowhere to go.

He sprints for new cover, tossing a blasting curse over his shoulder as he goes. He hears Wormtail yelp, accompanied by the sound of stone shattering, and grins. The cloud of debris that rises into the air gives him just enough time to duck behind another headstone.

Ron and Hermione would surely be appalled to know it, but as he listens for the sound of Wormtail searching for him, he feels a dark thrill rise in his veins.

Adrenaline floods through him, panic sharpening into something more productive.

He wants to fight.

He needs to  _run_.

Wormtail casts a spell, then, one he doesn’t recognize, and the world around him lights up. When he looks down at himself, he sees his skin stained with a silvery glow. Looking back over his shoulder, he sees the same glow in the shape of a body that must be Wormtail’s. Cursing under his breath, he rolls away from the tombstone just in time to avoid a jet of red light.

There’s no hiding now, so he sets his teeth against the ache in his leg and runs, dodging spellfire as he goes.

His dreams have given him some idea of the layout of the graveyard, but he finds that it’s not enough as he races for the gate, thrown off course by Wormtail’s attempts to stun him.

He wonders, briefly, why the man doesn’t bother using more lethal spells before putting the thought aside to consider once he’s reached safety. He’s not entirely sure where safety might be or how he might achieve it, but he has to strive for something. Maybe, if he can put enough distance between himself and his pursuer, he can summon the Knight Bus to take him away.

He can almost see the gate rising out of the mist when something heavy knocks into him.

He’s thrown off his feet and flies forward, falling into a roll only to feel heavy coils around him, holding him in place. A vicious hiss sounds as he thrashes in its hold, and he freezes, panting heavily against the dirt.

He’d forgotten about the snake.

He shifts, trying to reach his wand, and he feels her coils wrap tighter around him.

Wormtail finally catches up to him, then, and it takes all of his strength of will to stay still as the man levitates him from the ground, the snake still wrapped around him. Once they reach the clearing near where the portkey first arrived, the pain in his scar spikes, and he feels wet heat spread across his face.

Wormtail drops them to the ground, then, and the snake shifts in protest.

“ _Stupid man_ ,”  the snake hisses to herself as she uncoils and slithers away from where Harry lies. She shadow-bites at Wormtail’s ankle, and the man squeals as he hops away. “ _Weak, worthless man_.”

Harry bites back a smile. If he thought he might succeed, he’d try to convince her to kill the man.

But he doesn’t have the time to consider such things.

The clearing is surrounded by a ring of gravestones, some more grand than others. In the middle, a cauldron sits, big enough to hold a fully grown man. After lighting a fire under it, Wormtail hurries to a bundle of robes the lies nearby. Harry doesn’t hear what he says, but he doesn’t need to.

The sight of it lying there, the knowledge of what it is, makes Harry want to set the whole graveyard on fire, but before he can make another attempt to run, Wormtail turns to approach him once more. With a flick of his wand and a muttered spell, Harry finds himself lifted toward one of the graves and into the arms of a stone figure. The angel of death, Harry thinks, scythe in hand and wings arced toward the sky.

How fitting.

He feels stone press against his back, and the arms of the statue come forward, trapping him in its hold, the shaft of its scythe pressing against his neck.

It’s hard to think beyond the burning in his scar, but as he watches Wormtail hurry toward the robed lump on the ground once more, Harry can no longer pretend he doesn’t know why he’s here.

“Do it,” a voice says. Harry shivers at the familiar sound. “Now!”

He watches, helpless to do anything but struggle fruitlessly as Wormtail lifts the bundle from the ground and carries it toward the cauldron. The man drops it in, and Harry can’t tear his eyes away as he waits, breathless.

Let it drown, he thinks desperately as he watches the potion settle.

For a moment, nothing happens, and he feels something like hope well up in him. Then, the liquid in the cauldron begins to shiver, dull gray rippling into the color of pale flesh.

Wormtail flicks his wand. When Harry looks down, he sees the earth at his feet crumble away as a cloud of dust rises into the air.

“Bone of the father,” Wormtail says, his voice shaking as he guides the bone dust through the air, “unknowingly given, you will renew your son.”

The dust falls into the cauldron, and the potion sparks.

He conjures a knife, then, and Harry feels his breath catch.

“Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master.”

Harry knows what’s going to happen, but he can’t look away. The knife flashes and then it’s over, and where Wormtail’s hand once was is nothing but a bleeding stump. The man whimpers in pain, but he doesn’t stop.

Instead, he walks toward Harry, and a new horror rises in him.

“No,” Harry says uselessly, struggling to escape with renewed strength. “No!”

He kicks out, but the man dodges and the arms of the stone figure at his back tighten, halting his struggle as he chokes at the pressure on his neck. Wormtail takes advantage of his discomfort to press the knife into his skin of his left arm.

Harry makes a strangled sound of protest, but the man ignores him.

This cut is not quick.

Wormtail drags the blade down his forearm, and Harry can’t help the hiss of pain he makes as his arm burns. As much as he’d love to kick Wormtail’s face in, he doesn’t try to kick him away again. He doesn’t want the knife to slip and cut his hand off as well.

Finally, Wormtail is finished with him, and he holds the knife up for Harry to see. His blood shines crimson in the fire’s light. He wants to feel sick, but the fear leaves no room.

“Blood of the enemy,” Wormtail says as he returns to stand before the cauldron, “forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe.”

He holds the dripping knife above the cauldron, and Harry watches as one, two, three drops fall in, staining the potion a pale red as a shower of sparks spills over the rim.

Let it fail, he thinks as he watches the potion settle once more.

Let there have been a mistake.

A ripple runs across the potion’s surface like a heartbeat, and a heavy fog rises into the air, twisting into a column of magic and potion fumes. First pale red, then bone white, the fog settles into a deep grey as the cauldron burns into it. Harry watches, breathless, as dark shapes move through the fog and flashes of light pierce through it. Finally, the shadows melt together to form a single silhouette.

The fog hangs in the air for a moment longer until, with a sound like a gentle sigh, it dissipates, melting into the earth.

Harry couldn’t look away if he wanted to.

The creature before him is tall and thin, a construct of flesh and magic that is as beautiful as it is terrible. It’s uncanny, Harry thinks, how closely this being of bone and blood mimics humanity. The frame is the same, but the way it moves, the way it  _breathes_ -

His blood runs through its veins.

The creature opens its eyes, and Harry feels his breath catch.

Red like blood.

Red like  _his_  blood.

And then the body speaks.

“Robe me.”

Wormtail hurries forward, a wave of his wand conjuring fabric as black as night to cover the creature’s flesh (white like bone, white like  _rot_ ), and it must revel in the feeling of cloth against its new flesh.

This creature, this construct, is a monster. But it is a man.

It is- He is…

He is watching Harry.

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort says, and Harry despairs.

His blood (his  _blood_ ) runs in this body that stands before him. He thinks he can almost feel the beat of Voldemort’s heart, echoing his own. It beats like a drum. Like a bell. Like a death knell. The rushing of blood in his veins washes over him, and he cannot tell what is his and what is  _his_.

“The boy who lived.”

He despises the name, but the difference is  _why_.

Voldemort walks closer, like he can’t help it. Like they were meant to-

Voldemort doesn’t speak.

He just looks, his gaze heavy, and Harry cannot look away.

He cannot speak. Does he need to speak?

Who turns away first?

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t  _know_.

But Voldemort is not Harry. And Harry is not Voldemort.

And it is Voldemort that walks away.

Harry watches him go.

He can’t hear what is said across the clearing, but Voldemort glances back his way and with a wave of his newly acquired wand, he releases Harry from his stone prison.

The arms holding him pull away, and he falls forward.

Why he’s been freed, he doesn’t know.

Nagini takes the opportunity to coil her body over him once more, and he bites back a hiss of rage. There’s something inside him that feels right with her so near, but he doesn’t know what it is, and it makes him furious.

“ _My master’s prey is familiar_ ,” she hisses to herself. Harry glances up to see Voldemort paying them no mind, seemingly satisfied to know that Harry won’t be able to escape his familiar’s hold. “ _But it is weak and small_.”

Now, Harry likes to think he’s a pretty tolerant person. But it looks like he’s found his limit for the day. Considering the events of the last thirty minutes, he thinks it’s deserved.

“ _Fuck off_ ,” he hisses in reply, all but spitting the words.

At that, Voldemort turns, and Harry freezes under his gaze. He looks surprised, and then the surprise morphs into something different. Something he cannot name.

“ _What did you say_?” the body before him asks. He paces forward and bends to grab Harry by the neck, lifting him to stand on his toes as he looks him in the eye. Nagini hisses in protest as she slides from her perch across his back, but since Voldemort doesn’t pay her any mind, Harry doesn’t either. “ _Speak, boy._ ”

Harry keeps his mouth shut and glares.

Okay, so. Revealing he shares the gift of Parseltonge was probably a mistake.

“ _I will not ask again_.”

Harry can taste blood in his mouth, so he spits it in Voldemort’s face, taking pleasure in the moment of undisguised disgust that twists across the noseless face before fury takes over.

“Crucio,” Voldemort says, digging his wand into Harry’s ribs as he casts, never releasing his hold.

The pain that overtakes him then is beyond words, and rather than bite straight through his tongue, Harry lets out a strangled yell.

Then the spell ends, and he feels as if he’s himself again.

“ _Speak_ ,” Voldemort commands.

“No,” Harry says.

Voldemort throws him to the ground, and Harry goes willingly, feeling as if he can breathe again now that the construct’s hands are no longer on him.

“Imperio,” Voldemort intones, and Harry has only a moment to worry before it feels as if the world has fallen away from him, and he floats in a painless void.

Except.

Speak for me, the voice in his head says, and Harry sighs as he relaxes into the feeling.

It isn’t real.

Speak for me, the voice in his head says, and Harry forces his eyes open. He turns and presses his cheek into the dirt. Gravestones rise around him.

It isn’t  _right_.

Speak for me, the voice in his head says, one last time.

“Piss off,” he says in reply, and the world crashes back to him.

“Come now, Harry,” the monster says, and Harry really wishes he wouldn’t. He has no right to speak his name. “Be polite.”

“I’d rather die.”

Instead of saying something cliche and villainous, like telling him that he will, Voldemort paces forward, looming above Harry’s form where he lies in the dirt.

“At least stand on your feet,” he says with a sneer.

“I’d love to,” Harry says, the pain making him bold. “But I’m afraid I’ve just been tortured and don’t feel like doing anything at all.”

He considers standing, because it really does feel wrong to allow himself to stay in such a vulnerable position, but since Voldemort seems find his being on the ground distasteful, he decides he quite likes it here.

If he has to die here, he’s going to do it while being as much of a nuisance as possible.

“I don’t need to ask,” Voldemort informs him. “I could rip the information from your mind-”

“Then why don’t you?”

Voldemort doesn’t answer, and Harry realizes for the first time that he might actually be afraid. He looks up at Voldemort, reconsidering. Dumbledore told him that he may have gained some of Voldemort’s power, that Halloween night, but what if it was something more?

What could Voldemort be afraid of?

Well. It looks like there’s only one way to find out.

“ _I’ve always been able to speak_ ,” Harry says.

He pushes himself to his feet, staring into that blood red gaze. While some people might tell him that his disregard for his own safety, or maybe his need to save those in need, is his biggest flaw, he thinks in this moment that the one thing linking all of his troubles together is curiosity.

It’s this curiosity that drives him now.

Voldemort closes the distance between them, reaching out to touch his scar. Harry tries to flinch away, but Voldemort grabs him by the jaw before he can as he finally touches a finger to his forehead.

There is pain, but it’s not like before. It feels…

It feels beautiful.

And horrible.

“ _How very curious_ ,” Voldemort says.

Harry bares his teeth in response.

Finally, the man releases him, and Harry takes a stumbling step backward, nearly tripping over Nagini in the process. He only just keeps himself from kicking her. He’s certain that if he did, he’d lose his foot.

“Wormtail,” Voldemort calls, and the shivering man hurries over from where he’d been hovering just within hearing distance. “There’s been a change of plans.”

Wormtail, still clutching at his stump of a wrist, looks between Harry and Voldemort with clear confusion.

“My Lord? I don’t understand?”

“No, I wouldn’t expect you to,” Voldemort says. He reaches out as if to touch Harry again, and Harry feels a flood of relief when he halts the motion before he can actually make contact. “ _I barely understand it myself._ ”

“My Lord?”

“We’re leaving,” Voldemort tells him. “ _Come, Nagini._ ”

“Wait!” Harry protests, though he’s not sure why. He glances Wormtail’s way before electing to continue in Parseltongue, just to make the man feel excluded. “ _That’s it_?”

Voldemort turns to look back at him, and his gaze is heavy with an intent Harry couldn’t even begin to understand.

“ _For now_.”

That said, he reaches to rest a hand on Nagini’s head and grabs Wormtail’s good arm before apparating away, leaving Harry to stand alone in the abandoned and partially destroyed graveyard, charred earth where the cauldron once stood still slightly smoking.

He stands there for a moment longer, waiting to see if it’s a trick.

Finally, when no Death Eaters leap from the shadows and Voldemort stays truly gone, he shakes himself out of his stupor and goes to find his wand where it was tossed aside earlier.

He’s going to need it to get back to Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first of two fills for a harrymort+parseltonge prompt.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at my main blog: asterismsinyoureyes or my side blog: being-luminous


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry asks the Dark Lord for a favor. 
> 
> As he's attempting to persuade the man to his side, they're interrupted by a group of Death Eaters with particularly bad timing.

He finds the Dark Lord in his study. **  
**

“What do you want?” the man asks, sounding far too put upon for this early hour.

“Rude,” Harry says as he pushes off the door frame and wanders close enough to lean over the back of Voldemort’s chair, half to get a look at the documents he’s reading and half to annoy him by hovering so close. “Who says I want anything?”

Voldemort just gives him a  _look_.

Harry smiles as sweetly as he can. He knows the man will never be fooled by it, but it’s always fun to see how far he’ll let Harry push.

“It’s Ginny’s birthday soon.”

Voldemort sighs.

“She’s invited a few friends out to Florean Fortescue’s to celebrate.”

“And?” Voldemort says when he realizes Harry won’t be letting this go anytime soon.

“And… A little bird has told me that you plan to raid Diagon on the same day.”

“Is that so.” Voldemort finally gives up on the report he’s been trying to read. “What exactly is the name of this  _little bird_.”

Harry knows better than to answer. Instead, he hops up to sit on Voldemort’s desk, kicking his legs at the precise angle to thump against Voldemort’s chair on each swing.

“I want you to change your plans,” he informs the man.

“Yes, I gathered.” Voldemort grabs onto Harry’s legs once they swing close enough, halting their movement as he squeezes right beneath the knee. Harry winces but doesn’t protest. “Enlighten me. Why should I care about the birthday plans of one girl?”

“She’s my friend.”

“And  _I_  am your  _Lord_.”

Harry glares, considering his next move. Finally, he allows his gaze to soften as he does his best to smother a rush of glee. He doesn’t want the man to know how much he’s enjoying this, after all.

“Would you like me to say please?” he asks.

Voldemort’s hold on him tightens, and Harry bites back a smirk. He pulls his legs free and slides to his knees beside the man’s chair, crossing his arms on the man’s thigh as he peers up at him, his cheek resting on his folded arms.

 _“Please, My Lord?”_  he asks, slipping into Parseltongue because he knows Voldemort’s weaknesses, now, and this is probably his biggest one.  _“For me?”_

 _“You-”_  Voldemort clears his throat, forcing himself back into English. “You, Potter, are a menace.”

_“Is that a yes?”_

Voldemort reaches down to caress his cheek and lets his nails drag across his skin. Harry can’t help but shiver in response.

“Not yet,” Voldemort says, his voice deceptively soft as his blood red eyes narrow in anticipation.  _“You ask for much.”_

 _“Yes,”_  Harry says with a sigh as he leans into Voldemort’s touch.

 _“Prove to me that you deserve it,”_ Voldemort commands him, _“and I will do as you ask,”_

 _“And how shall I prove it?”_  Harry asks, peering up at Voldemort with his most innocent expression.

Voldemort shifts in his chair, spreading his legs as his hand moves to pet at Harry’s hair.

_“I’m certain you’ll think of something.”_

He’s struck, then, by the thought of what Ginny might say if she could see him now, bargaining for the safety of her party on his knees. He fights the urge to giggle hysterically. He’s certain Voldemort would take that the wrong way. Finally, he shrugs the thought away.

He has better things to focus on.

 _“Yes, My Lord,”_  he says with a smile.

Before he can move, however, he’s interrupted by the sound of someone knocking on the still open door. Startled, he turns to look. When he sees who’s standing at the door, he can’t help the grin that stretches across his face.

“Good morning, Professor,” he says, his little game with Voldemort mostly forgotten now that they have an audience. He ignores both Voldemort’s sudden annoyance and the presence of the other Death Eaters as he takes in the sour look on Snape’s face. “Lovely to see you.”

Voldemort pulls sharply at his hair, the only physical sign of his rising temper, and Harry winces. But, honestly, the discomfort is very much worth it.  

“Our apologies, My Lord,” one of the Death Eaters says when the silence drags on. “The door was open, so we thought…” He trails off awkwardly.

His scar burns with Voldemort’s agitation, and Harry’s certain that the Death Eaters feel it too by the way they tense up and drop their gazes to the floor in near perfect unison. As much as he doesn’t care about any of them, Harry knows that a torture session would ruin his chances of getting Voldemort into the mindset he needs to get his way, so he decides he’ll step in. Just this once.

 _“Your minions have terrible timing,”_  he informs the man. All but Snape twitch in surprise at the sound. Snape just frowns harder.

 _“Silence,”_  Voldemort hisses.

Harry does his best to send calming thoughts through their connection. It’s moderately successful.

 _“To be fair,”_  he says,  _“it’s not exactly their fault they interrupted us.”_

Voldemort’s nails scratch at his scalp.

_“Shut. Up.”_

Honestly. How can he say that and not expect a response?

_“Make me.”_

Voldemort uses his grip on Harry’s hair to drag him higher on his knees, and Harry almost laughs at the fear he can feel wafting from the crowd of Death Eaters bearing witness.

“Would you like me to cut out your tongue?” Voldemort asks pleasantly.

Harry hums in pleasure.

“You wouldn’t,” he says. Then, glancing Snape’s way, he returns to Parseltongue with a wicked grin.  _“You’d miss the things I do with it.”_

Voldemort’s grip tightens in warning, and Harry closes his eyes and leans into his hold. While he can tell that the man is still somewhat annoyed, he’s enjoying putting on this display just as much as Harry is.

Finally, with a near silent sigh, Harry feels the last of the man’s anger drain away and he’s allowed to relax back onto his heels as Voldemort releases him. When Voldemort’s hand returns to his hair, he’s petting him rather than holding him in place, and Harry takes this as his cue to finally fall silent.

Once Voldemort waves them forward, the Death Eaters do their best to ignore his presence and give their report. Harry returns the favor, paying little attention to what they have to say. If it’s important, he’ll find out later.

Finally, they’re dismissed. The last cloaked figure disappears and Harry hears the door shut firmly behind them as the lock snaps into place.

 _“Now,”_  Voldemort says as he drags his fingers through Harry’s hair,  _“I believe you had some persuading to do.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second of two fills for a harrymort+parseltongue prompt.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at my main blog: asterismsinyoureyes or my side blog: being-luminous


End file.
